


Most intimate of friends

by amorenbalde



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27029845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorenbalde/pseuds/amorenbalde
Summary: "A great man indeed, our dear Marquis," Jefferson inches closer to Hamilton's desk to lean in, one eyebrow raised, drawls, voice dripping in honey, "We hadsucha good time in Paris. He does getverytalkative once you get him drunk, doesn't he? Though you'd know all about his drunken ways, i'm sure, he did stress you two were the mostintimateof friends."Alexander's deft hand working the quill stops for a flicker of a beat at the sheer insinuation. He carries on, for the benefit of nobody but himself though, as Jefferson seems to have decided to let that trump card do the talking andfuck, Hamilton thinks as the door closes behind Jefferson's ridiculous, somehow absolutely smug walk.Fuck. This is decidedlynot good.* * *  *  * * *Most of the ships are just Hamilton's past, background, or imagination.Starring: my inability to write a scene without years of backstory.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Most intimate of friends

**Author's Note:**

> When you try to write p*rn but angst comes out instead

It's late afternoon and Hamilton is _busy_. Drawing up plans about the mint of their new nation is something that takes time and research and the last thing he needs is a distraction. So when the door opens and _Thomas Jefferson_ walks in, a letter in hand, Hamilton is ready to tear out his own hair in frustration.

He does his best not to let the annoyance show on his face though. The Virginian is still, after months of working together, a strange enigma to him. Annoying and relentlessly _wrong_ in so many respects, for sure, but also obviously intelligent and _charming_. He does not need for the man to know how his presence affects him.

(He and Eliza had hosted a dinner for Jefferson upon his return to the country, and it had gone well. The evening had been spent with Jefferson entertaining everybody with stories of his travels in Europe, discussions around the table on the ideals of the enlightenment, _Thomas_ unabashedly delighting Eliza with anecdotes of Angelica snubbing all of his advances in Paris- and hadn't _that_ just been fun to listen to. Jefferson had been perfectly charming, Hamilton's drink addled brain even deeming him a tad flirty with _him_ in Hamilton's modest library when they'd found themselves talking about things of no consequence, in a slightly conspirational manner for no reason, low whiskey fuelled whispers, the other man's gaze staying on Hamilton's lips for just a moment too long, until a servant girl had come to inform them the dessert had been brought out and they'd rejoined the table from their brief respite. Their eyes had met later then, with everyone else's gaze on general Schuyler recollecting his war stories and he'd felt that uncertain, beautiful ache in his chest that he'd felt when he first met John, first met Gil, first met _Eliza_.

And then he and Jefferson got to actually work together and everything had gone to hell.

Aside from their ideological differences when it comes to building their new country, there's also the difference to their _methods_ that irks Hamilton. Whereas he thinks quick on his feet, demolishing his opponents with his rapid speech, Jefferson has this infuriating _calm_ about him. Although the man certainly has a way with words, he uses his wits to get things done in a different way. Makes suggestions to people, pulls strings when necessary, calls in favors, holds his cards close to his chest. Does not _generally_ let himself get riled up in response to Hamilton. It unsettles Alexander- there's often a look that Jefferson seems to save just for the moments Washington calls Alexander out on his impropriety, tells him to calm down- a strange, knowing smirk, and it makes his skin crawl.)

The Virginian, with a dramatic hand gesture, drops the letter on top of the half filled page Hamilton had been writing on and the man sits back and sighs in exasperation, immediately winces inwardly. Jefferson's lips have quirked up just a tiny bit as he explains his interference.

"Mr. President graciously allows us to read this letter just arrived today from the Marquis de Lafayette, who sends his regards to us both."

Jefferson's intense gaze does not leave Hamilton's eyes as Hamilton gingerly sets the letter aside to keep on working unlike _some people_.

"What pleasure to be held in such a high esteem by the great Marquis," Hamilton quips, looks up at Jefferson for a moment just to note that infuriating smirk back on the man's face, before dipping his quill into the ink and returning to his earlier work of drafting letters, the issue of the new currency at hand. He's had a vague idea the two must've spent some time together in Paris- Jefferson, the celebrated American ambassador to France, and, Lafayette, the eager French lover of _most_ things American. He hadn't given much thought to the two being particularly close. He'd tried to not think about _him_ at all, since thinking of Gilbert inevitably led to thinking of _John_ , and...

"A great man indeed, our dear Marquis," Jefferson inches closer to Hamilton's desk to lean in, one eyebrow raised, drawls, voice dripping in honey, "We had _such_ a good time in Paris. He does get _very_ talkative once you get him drunk, doesn't he? Though you'd know all about his drunken ways, i'm sure, he did stress you two were the most _intimate_ of friends."

Alexander's deft hand working the quill stops for a flicker of a beat at the sheer insinuation. He carries on, for the benefit of nobody but himself though, as Jefferson seems to have decided to let that trump card do the talking and _fuck_ , Hamilton thinks as the door closes behind Jefferson's ridiculous, somehow absolutely smug walk. _Fuck_. This is decidedly _not good_.

There is, after all, a veritable wealth of material that Lafayette could have talked about when it comes to Hamilton.

Because, yes, he _does_ know how talkative Gilbert gets when drunk. And not just that, how _friendly_ , and touchy and needy and _generous_ a few glasses or pints or shots make the boy. It's not like that knowledge had only ever been in that protected circle of the _three of them_ though- and oh, the brief flash of memory, of Laurens and Lafayette languidly making out on the bed nestled between Hamilton's legs brings to his chest a pang of sadness bitterly making way for the _anger_ starting to simmer at the mere thought that this _obnoxious_ , smirking, scheming, privileged, _magenta wearing_ , slave owning _wanker_ has somehow been privy to _that_ particular side of his ( _t h e i r_ ) sweet, brave, mischievous Lafayette.

Hamilton puts the quill away. There's a chill down his spine and suddenly he's unsure if there's something else lurking under the obvious threat. He's not surprised that Jefferson would use whatever Lafayette may have revealed about him as leverage for the next time they fundamentally disagree on matters. Rumors could kill a career, break apart a family, could get a man himself killed. That's not what makes his head spin though, he feels a knot forming in his stomach for not knowing if Jefferson had only listened or _indulged_. He's not sure how to feel about either of those options.

He thinks back to that evening in his library, of eyes on his lips, had that been _desire_?

Or had that been the knowledge of just what Hamilton's mouth was capable of, what use it had been put to with Lafayette?

He thinks of the look Jefferson had given him later that evening, the briefest moment of eye contact but _deadly_ , alighting a fire in Hamilton's belly and no, it's not like he could really fault Gil for getting into bed with Jefferson, the man was, he could concede, after all, handsome- with his flowing locks and full lips and a body like a Greek god, even if he knew now, thoroughly evil inside. And if Hamilton's not sure sober Lafayette could look past Jefferson's obvious moral deficiencies to be able to want to engage the man in sexual activities, he's fully aware that drunk Lafayette definitely _would_.

It would be highly hypocritical of him, he thinks, to feel _betrayed_. Gilbert had always loved to talk about his conquests- about his early moments with equally inexperienced schoolboys his own age, of his furtive experiences with other young military compatriots before coming to America, had talked about his Adrienne, breathless, how she'd always longed to hear more about his brief encounters with other men- she was, after all, forever the only woman in his life-, sighing " _more,_ _what did he do next, love?"_ , finding her sweet release under Lafayette. He'd talked of the nights spent on his ship, of desperate sailor boys keeping him warm at night, had spent nights, much to the amusement of both Alex and John, waxing lyrical on the topic of his longing for Washington's eyes and hands and _everything_ on him. How could Hamilton have expected their times together would remain just memories between the three of them?

(Hamilton is aware that Jefferson had only lost his wife a few years before going to Paris, and decides that must've been it. Lafayette, perpetually upbeat, had always had a knack for seeking out the melancholy, and making them feel better.

1784, nearly 3 years after Yorktown, 2 years after John had perished, Lafayette had finally made his way back to the New World. Between being a celebrity, and seeing old friends, negotiating with indigenous tribes, visiting Washington- between all that, Lafayette had taken the time to find himself at Hamilton's doorstep. It would've been embarrassing, Hamilton thinks, if anyone had been a witness to the tearful embrace. They'd spent days locked in Alexander's house- Eliza and little Philip at her father's. They'd mainly stayed in bed, Lafayette holding him _so close_ as the dam holding the tears Hamilton had not let himself release had finally broken, the two crying and talking and reminiscing about Laurens, drinking and _laughing_ and loving, before the time had come for the Marquis to place a soft kiss on his forehead and bid him adieu, and that had been the last time he had seen him. He'd carried the lightness that Lafayette had brought into his heart around for months.)

He leans back, closes his eyes because he can just see it in his mind's eye- Jefferson, sprawled across some ornate chair, candlelit in an aristocratic drawing room, polite company gone home after an evening of drinks and merriment and talks of revolution. Can see Lafayette, cravat loosened, lips tinted with wine, cheeks reddened and eyes darkened, raising his eyebrows and brushing his hand against magenta breeches, the seated man's breath hitched at Lafayette's boldness. Then, later, Jefferson's long graceful fingers tracing over Lafayette's eyes and cheeks and lips as the man takes him into his mouth, moans around the length. The Marquis had always enjoyed that, pleasing others above all else.

Hamilton clenches his fists, does not allow himself to get carried away with that thought, even if his imagination has brought upon the first stirrings of arousal- Washington will want Lafayette's letter back in his possession by the end of the day and it's already getting late. Among everything else, he feels slightly bemused Washington had let Jefferson read the letter before him but he's never let petty jealousies get a hold of him before and does not intend to start now, so he reaches for the discarded pages and leans back in his chair.

Despite himself, he finds himself stifling a laugh, amused by the letter at once, because of course, Gil had started it off by filling a whole page with his concern for Washington's well-being, about his relief of not having known the man had been gravely ill until he'd recovered, _admonishing the President_ to take better care of his health- before getting into the political climate of France.

It almost feels like an afterthought, the greetings to him, Knox, Jefferson, one line on the sixth page of the letter, followed by the permission for the three to read it, with all of Lafayette's love for Washington laid bare for anyone to see- not that anyone could ever have had doubts regarding his devotion.

He doesn't know why there are suddenly tears prickling in his eyes, but _no_ , he's lying to himself, of course he does know why. _Six years_ without seeing the man. A handful of letters received in that time. He feels like an afterthought but he also knows that's how Lafayette must feel about himself in Hamilton's eyes. They're both aware that whatever is ( _was_ ) between them will always be marred by the memories of the one they'd lost. He hopes the man doesn't judge him for the letters that remain unanswered.

He closes his eyes, breathes out slowly, wills himself not to think about them. There are murmurs and footsteps on the other side of his door, the offices slowly beginning to empty out with the weekend looming. He wipes at the wetness in his eyes with his shirtsleeves. He cannot have someone walk in on him with tears in his eyes.

Hamilton goes over the letter once more, quickly, devouring the details he'd missed the first time reading, things not going as smoothly in France as Lafayette had hoped, but the man still has hope, as always. He's distracted himself enough from his feelings by the third time reading and decides it's best to get it back to its owner. Knox is out of town for a few weeks, so Alexander returns the letter to a grateful ( _happy_ , he thinks) Washington.

He thinks about heading home but doesn't. Their house is full of love these days, true, but a handful of children also brings _noise_ , and Hamilton needs to take a break and breathe and...

There's this part of him, that wild, stupid, _reckless_ part of him-

the part that had made him run back for his discarded weapon under enemy fire

(Hercules yelling at him for _truly being that fucking stupid, what the fuck?_ , while pushing ahead with the cannons they'd stolen),

the part that had made him grab John Laurens by the neck and _kiss him_ with no hesitation, just to wipe that unbearably beautiful smile off the man's face

(a thousand and one reasons for not doing so echoing in his mind),

the part that had made him ignore the General's direct order, that had made him _quit_ with nothing else going for him, a snap decision after years of expecting a command,

the part that had made him run full steam ahead into battle-

that part is on the move already, on his way to Jefferson's office, to confront him with- _what_ , exactly?

That part of him had never been great at thinking ahead.

It has him moving to a foreign direction from Washington's office, heart beating familiarly wild, head absentmindedly not in control of his own body-

one foot in front of the other and _what the fuck is he doing?_

The door to Jefferson's office is locked.

_Thank fuck for that_ , Hamilton thinks, having been saved from his own stupidity for once in his life. He retreats back to his own office, slinks into his chair.

His heart is still beating too fast so he rises again, restless, reaches for a bottle of whiskey Washington had gifted him, doesn't bother with a glass, and takes a swig, then another, and a third.

To his mortification, he finds that he is hardening again, from the high of anticipation, the thrill of the idea of him and Jefferson in a small room together now that the other man was certainly aware of his proclivities with other men, and maybe, just maybe took part himself. He cups his dick through the layer of cloth, and that's a mistake, he needs more, and _no_ , he is not doing that in his office. He paces about for a moment, closes his eyes, and that's a mistake, a flood of images flashes in his mind- _eyes on his lips_ , Gil on his knees, John on his back, eyes closed and biting his own lip, Eliza, breathless, head thrown back against the pillow. He swears and sits back down, the desk in front of him a shield should anybody walk in at this late hour, because, apparently, fuck,

he _is_ doing that in his office.

He'd walked straight to Jefferson's office, and for _what_? What had he anticipated that would happen?

Any hope of regaining his composure is lost as he considers that question, thinks of Jefferson's eyes on his lips, his _lips_ on his lips, the slight taste of whiskey on the tongue dancing against his. He undoes his breeches, slips a hand downward to tease himself, keeps an ear out for anybody still moving about the corridor.

Hamilton thinks back to that picture in his mind earlier, Lafayette on his knees in front of Jefferson. He bites his lip, knows that this will be over too soon, the image just too much to bear. He strokes himself a few times, stops, then repeats the motion, suddenly imagining himself in Lafayette's position. Wonders what noises Jefferson would make with Hamilton's tongue on his dick, licking at the sensitive spot just under the head, dipping into his slit, lavishing his attention down, down, down to his balls, then up again to finally take him into his mouth and suck. Would Jefferson call his name? Would he call him Hamilton, would he call him _Alexander_?

He slows down the hand stroking himself, his heavy breaths filling the empty room.

He wonders-

(He'd always loved the thrill of getting to know what makes a new person tick.

He and John had barely managed to get their hands on one another before it was _over_ , the two of them laughing in a tangled, sticky, happy mess before kissing lazily and holding and grabbing and going again, Alex will always remember the pure look of _awe_ on John's face.)

He keeps touching himself slowly, heart beating wildly, a pang of pain in his chest, thinking of the way Laurens had felt in his arms, his quiet laughter, that look of wild abandon as he held him that Christmas, time running out but no intention of letting go. They'd been late to the duel, and the private celebration of _John staying alive,_ later that night- Hamilton had only come to realize later- had been the first time he really knew what _love_ was.

(Lafayette had been a wildcard. He had been on the periphery of their relationship, a certain affection more than just the camaraderie between soldiers always there- even before the man had unceremoniously invited himself to their bed one cold night, revealing that his impression of the relationship between Hamilton and Laurens was disturbingly too accurate to their liking. They'd let him in anyway. Gil had been so shy that night (quite uncharacteristically so, they'd ended up learning later)- after boldly propositioning them, he'd waited for the others to take the lead and undress him, even order him around a little. John and Alex had always been equal, and easy, just this need between them to _touch_ and be close, so that had been something new. Alex remembers almost feeling the gears turn in John's head- asking Gil to get on his knees and the Frenchman eagerly _obeying_ \- John swearing quietly, taking Alex by the hand, dragging him closer.)

That thought is _almost_ enough to bring Hamilton over the edge, but no. His mind flits away from the image of him and his intimate war-time friends.

(Eliza had, unsurprisingly, been inexperienced but eager, the sheer love in her eyes proving his undoing in the end. There had been no hurry that night, unlike wartime fumblings with fellow soldiers, concrete privacy always in the back of their minds, but a lifetime to get to know one another ahead. They'd been drunk on wine and tired and Alex had spent so long between Eliza's legs, his _wife_ 's fingers clutching in his hair, _his wife_ , red in the face, looking at him with a wild smile, getting there one last time with Alex finally inside, soft lips against his, fingers teasing her.)

_Enough_ , Hamilton chides himself. _Don't think about Eliza, not now, not mixed in with all of the others_.

(There had been _others_ , of course- chance encounters, now a faceless, nameless blur of people, none of them memorable enough for Alex to have gone back for more.)

There had been others, but even they are not enough, right now. He's desperate.

Hamilton has tried, over the past few months, to not let himself get carried away with thoughts of Thomas in a similar manner. That fuse, ignited that night in his library, had quite severely been put out by their clashes and the other man's stubborn need to put a damper on many of Alex's brilliant ideas; Hamilton's libido, he'd discovered, disturbingly quite entwined with his _ego_.

Now, though, the spark is there again, and he can't help it, lets himself swim with the current, allows the thoughts into his head:

The images from before, Alex on his knees in front of that smug bastard, flit before his eyes, and _that would be too easy_ , he thinks. The way the man had looked at him, he would _let him_ , Hamilton is sure. He would not let him off easy though, Hamilton knows as well. His hand speeds up, thinking of all the filthy names Jefferson would call him in conjunction with his sighs and moans.

His mind keeps going back to that look in the library, and that's what brings him off in the end, that fire in the man's eyes, _eyes on his lips_ , how they'd look at him with Hamilton's lips around the man's cock. He brings his free hand to his mouth, bites his fist to keep from crying out a name he really doesn't want to call out as he comes.

He cleans himself up with a handkerchief, tucks himself in and leans back in his chair once more, almost feeling satisfied for once-

After all, now he's got a problem to solve, and he _has_ always loved a challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody please teach me how to write shorter sentences.
> 
> Based very tenuously around a letter from Lafayette to Washington in August 1790. 
> 
> The Hamiltons apparently did host a dinner party for Jefferson when he came back to America and allegedly they got along quite well.. for like a week lmao. (more like a year in reality but for the purposes of this story, the fallout was quicker)


End file.
